april. ruins.

the rain’s celebrations bloomed acid
on the skin of the night
as it lied stretched across
the green hemisphere of my thoughts.
from the ether
some drop of salty tragedy
continued to bother the ghosts,
like a chinese torture,
losing itself afterwards beneath the carnival mask
that was covering with its rotten velvet and carrion laces
the inform.
“dramas flow”, you told me.
“dramas don’t know what is
the endless passion of words.
they just buzz in the background like some broken radio
while the dust gathered by your palm
caressing me
becomes history.
i’ll become an archeologist after i die,
to search for the traces of my existence in your eyes,
to dig for my heartbeats in your palms,
to fill my urn with all that you didn’t say to me.
until then though
let me bind my words like scales
on your thighs
and sing to me.”

© 2014 Liliana Negoi

 

originally written in Romanian 

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